


When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions.

by ThePoetess



Series: The Heroes [1]
Category: Anthropoid
Genre: Anthropoid - Freeform, Cillian Murphy - Freeform, Death, Friendship, Gen, Harry Lloyd - Freeform, Jamie Dornan - Freeform, Love, WWII, deciet, greed - Freeform, happiness, life - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-12
Updated: 2017-07-12
Packaged: 2018-12-01 09:14:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11483295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThePoetess/pseuds/ThePoetess
Summary: "Cowards die many times before their deaths, The valiant never taste of death but once."In December 1941, two agents from the Czechoslovak government-in-exile, Jozef Gabčík and Jan Kubiš are parachuted into their occupied homeland. Jozef is injured when he crashes through a tree upon landing, but both men set out to find their contact in Czechoslovakia. They are discovered shortly after by two resistance fighters who turn out to be traitors; one is shot by Jozef but the other man escapes. Stealing their truck, the agents head for Prague.Their mission, Operation Anthropoid.





	When sorrows come, they come not single spies, but in battalions.

Adolf Opalka sat down slowly with aching muscles and put pen to paper. 

I'm 27 years old today, the entire trip I pondered upon the words "Longing for home is a terrible thing, I know". Yes, only now do I know and understand. And this "homesickness" of Božena Němcová, which I never understood, is nothing compared to my longing for home. I'm willing to suffer through, and do whatever it takes, but only home and home and to honestly work, work for something... How can some speak of beauty, when they've never seen Rešice and the fields from Kordula to Rešice, who never strolled through the warm dirt there, who never felt the warm air and over the grain fields, who never saw our chapel in the milk of white cherries, Husák's garden, which always reminded me of Sholokhov, especially the dirt lumps under the "vortex" and the "Bare Hill" and all the other places on all of which I am. Parts of me are all over the world. In England, little was left of me, maybe more in Scotland... 27 years of life behind me. Death for my homeland. With that I have dealt, and am ready to do what it takes.

Wearily he rubbed his eyes. While the melodic music of the violin played he willed himself not to sleep, to stay awake, but, his eyes closed. Two weeks, two weeks since the jump. He could hear Ata's father yelling, he wondered if his father had ever yelled at him like that, they had been estranged since his mother's death in nineteen-thirty-two. A knock, lowly rapping, sounded on the door. He stiffened in his chair and the violin music ceased. He got up to quickly and met Uncle Hajský at the door. Cautiously he gave the signal.

The door opened slowly and Karel Čurda entered nonchalantly as if on holiday, he smiled at his comrade stupidly. Opalka scowled. Curda seemed unaffected and bit into the piece of bread he had bought himself at the shop down the road, he lit a cigarette and struck a pose after pushing his way past his companions. "I heard from England that We are to proceed with caution." Opalka took the cigarette and put it out in a nearby ashtray "This is not a holiday, this is war." He walked back to the desk and sat down quickly as the tension eased in his neck. He sat back and rubbed at his aching eyes. He didn't quite trust Curda. 

December 1941.

It was cold and the dark streets were lined with a thin smattering of snow when they arrived. Two figures, one limping, dragging a mangled foot that bled into the snow. He limped on with his companion beside him.

The stage had been set, the players placed in the right places, Reynhard Heydrich stared down cruelly at the chess board and flicked a pawn into the air angrily. He hated losing and on the chessboard he was definitely losing. His companion moved back against the glare given and the chess pieces left flying. Guarding his face he made his way about the room collecting and setting up the board once more. Heydrich yawned and lazily stroked the pile of money in his coat pocket, the stolen money, from Mauthausen and other like places. He smiled, maybe he would play poker with Klein. Heydrich would surely win. In poker, he smiled greedily, in poker as in life, he was indestructible, untouchable, he never lost a game. Mostly, because he cheated. If his opponents knew, they never told him. They played three games. The wolffish smile returned and he took his winnings hungrily. He scratched at the paper with a pen by his side, now, he scratched his head, an utter dilemma to be put away. Now, what to do with Czechoslovakia?


End file.
